words ash pritchard

A low-rise in an increasingly high-rise world, the Legislative Council building links Hong Kong’s past, present and future and gives an insight into events that shaped the city.

Flash back to the end of the 19th century when Hong Kong was a colonial outpost at the farthest reaches of the British Empire. Some things never change, it would seem, as even in Victorian-era Hong Kong, local landlords held sway and people lived in cramped conditions.

Following a cholera epidemic, one government initiative attempted to set a minimum habitable space for residential apartments at 12 sq ft for a family of four. However, due to commercial concerns of building owners, the plans were shelved.

To commemorate the visit to the territory in 1890 by Queen Victoria’s favorite son, the Duke of Connaught, a new reclamation scheme was announced. The reclaimed land was earmarked for a cricket pitch, clubhouse, tram-lines and a building to house the Supreme Court. The site, flanked by the new Jackson Road, was to be the pride of Hong Kong, and would eventually come to house the representatives of the people, the Legislative Council.

The scheme took 17 years to complete and saw thousands of Chinese Fir trees driven into the mud to create a floating raft for the structure. Sir Aston Webb and E Ingris Bell, two of the most famous architects of the day, were enlisted to design the new courthouse. The pair had already achieved much acclaim for their work creating the entry façade of the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, and Sir Aston Webb would shape a new face for one of the world’s most well-known buildings, Buckingham Palace.

A long career of justice
Ground was broken on the site in central Hong Kong in 1900, but the project underwent a number of delays due to unplanned-for circumstances like a shortage of local granite and the death
of the main contractor. When the
building finally opened its doors on January 5, 1912, it boasted the British Empire’s largest courtrooms. A report in the Hong Kong Telegraph noted differences in opinion regarding the building’s architectural beauty and structural fitness but hoped it was the start of “what will prove to be a long career of justice”.
Ninety-six years later, and the imposing neo-colonial structure is now home to Hong Kong’s Legislative Council, the representatives of the people and lawmakers for the SAR. Once a year, an open day gives up to 3,500 students, tourists, local sightseers and passers-by an opportunity to explore the interior of the building, which offers a glimpse of character, a relic of a time when Hong Kong’s colonial nature was mirrored by its built environment.

Kitty Ho, a teacher at Rosaryhill School, lead an excited group of students on a pilgrimage to the site of Hong Kong’s highest elected authority. She counts her school lucky to have been selected, explaining demand is so high that formal applications have to be made and random lots drawn to decide who is invited to go. Admitting that politics, and particularly the election of Anson Chan into LegCo, are foremost in the students’ minds, she says that the building is something that they, and Hong Kong, can be proud of.

To visitors such as Kitty Ho and her students, the LegCo building is a stark contrast to its backdrop of towers of concrete, steel and glass. Ionic columns, 55 feet high, encircle the exterior of the building, accompanied by ornamental balustrades and the iconic domed roof. Directly beneath this roof lies the main LegCo chamber where policy and bills are often hotly debated by legislators, perhaps unaware that, high above, the crest of the dome is adorned with a carved bronze Tudor crown representing King Edward VII.

Walking into history
Standing guard over the main entrance is a 2.7 metre statue of Themis, the Greek goddess embodying divine law and order. A traditional symbol of justice that appeared on government buildings and courts across the British Empire, she is blindfolded and holds a pair of balanced scales in her left hand, indicating impartiality and fairness. In her right hand she holds a sword, showing that while justice is fair, those who do wrong will be punished. These days, she is dwarfed by the giant Bank of China and Cheung Kong Centre skyscrapers that rise behind her.

While one would hope that in its 60-odd years as home of the Supreme Court justice was fairly served, during at least one period the building was used for more unsavoury purposes. In 1941, the Imperial Japanese Army overcame a brief resistance by 14,000 British troops and Hong Kong fell under Japanese rule, the occupiers annexing a number of Hong Kong landmarks. The Peninsula was chosen as the operational HQ and the Supreme Court building, whose facade now shows scars of the war in the form of shrapnel damage, for three years became the headquarters of the military police. It was during this time that the basement was put to an altogether diabolical use as a torture chamber.

As one walks around the almost disappointingly mundane interior of the first-floor conference rooms, it is hard to conceive this gruesome historical link. Still, Theresa Cheung, who has worked at the secretariat for 12 years, dispels any notion of ghosts roaming around the corridors after nightfall; in fact, she assures me, the busy work schedule supporting LegCo means that secretariat workers don’t have time to worry about such things. Leading a group of photo-snapping visitors into the main chamber, she says she feels privileged to be associated with the old building.

History redesigned
Following the Second World War, the building returned to its previous role as the Supreme Court and over the decades was at the epicentre of the transformation of Hong Kong from colonial backwater to economic powerhouse. As the surrounding areas saw more development and the commercial offices got taller and taller, the Supreme Court and adjacent park remained an oasis of calm. Progress, however, eventually impacted on the site and, in 1978, the construction of the MTR damaged the structure of the building and the courts had to be relocated.

Over the next few years, the fate of the building remained uncertain. Across the road, Norman Foster’s iconic creation replaced the old HSBC building, which had, co-incidentally, been torn down in 1978. Finally, in 1983 a new function and status was allocated to the old Supreme Court: it would be converted to house the new Legislative Council. In 1984, the year Margaret Thatcher signed the Sino-British Joint Declaration that signalled the end of colonial rule, the building was declared an official monument.

As one wanders through the building today, besides a main chamber many of us will recognize from the evening news, only a few rooms reveal the spirit of both the building and the etiquette of a council of lawmakers. The first is the members’ room whose plush leather couches, dark wooden bookcases and tasteful decoration are reminiscent of old Hong Kong. Taking pride of place in this room is a large gong, sounded once a week on a Wednesday to inform councillors to take their place in the chamber. Meanwhile, the dining room with its quaint corner bar would have made a fitting lunch setting in any colonial mansion.

As newly elected legislative councillor Anson Chan goes about her official duties, she will walk through corridors that echo with the history of the city. Yet she may not make all her legislative decisions among those echoes. In keeping with the ever-changing nature of the SAR, the building is due, once again, to see a new use: LegCo is slated to occupy new chambers in the government’s flagship Tamar project in 2010. Whether the latest change for the old Supreme Court building will coincide with another historic development, that of universal suffrage, is something that will be hotly debated within its vaunted chambers within the next few years. It would mark a fitting retirement for this true colonial gem, which has witnessed Hong Kong’s growth from within the SAR’s very heart.